


Pressing

by kouw



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Angst, Masturbation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kouw/pseuds/kouw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elsie comforts herself</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so I was trying to do a lovely fluffy fic and this came out.
> 
> I don't even know.

The cry seems to come from so deep within her, she doesn’t quite know where it starts. The strangled sound pains her as much as what she is trying to squeeze out. It’s been constricted within her as her body has been by her corsets and she shakily fumbles at the buttons of her dress, practically tears it off, clicks open the busk of her corset, pulls her chemise over her head, unties the ribbon of her knickers, kicks of her shoes, but cannot go on, she falls on her knees in front of her bed, her arms resting there, her head in her hands and she shakes, her sobs scrape through her throat and it aches, but not as much as what she had been trying to hold in, not what she has been trying to deny herself.

She shivers in the cold, the attic rooms have no fires, she keeps warm by taking up a brick she has put in the AGA and then wraps an old newspaper around, followed by an old towel. It warms her feet, but never her heart and today she just can’t take it anymore.

She has made it through years and years of service, she has made it through war, through restoration, through health scares and the death of young people who cannot be missed and she has nothing left to give.

Her cries are stifled by her blankets as she lets it all pour out, her thighs tremble under the strain - she is not longer used to sitting on her knees - and she crawls onto the bed, the covers warm in her back, the night air cool on her front and she wraps her arms around herself as her tears slide off her face and moisten her pillow. She turns to face the wall, still crying, but silently now. The urgency is gone, the sharpest pain has been replaced by a familiar dull ache.

She runs her hands over her upper arms, softly kneading her flesh, rubbing her palms against the base of her throat, her fingers running over her collarbone, clavicle, down her breastbone, careful not to move over her breasts that are suddenly aching for her touch. She squeezes her hips, presses her hands on her belly, not yet feeling the graying hair that is no longer full and curling, deftly going past it. 

She is setting her body on edge, ready to give it its comfort, the release she craves after her crying, the letting go. The only thing she can do that will surely keep her from thinking, worrying, laying awake all night, staring at the ceiling. She pushes her thighs together, creating friction by moving only the tiniest bit and she can feel how she is getting wet, her folds slipping past each other.

She runs the pads of her fingers over her waist, up her ribcage and plucks at her nipples, pinches them into pebbles, then soothes them, massaging her breasts, still firm and heavy in her hands. Her hips are already grinding into the mattress, impatient for what is coming.

She is no longer cold. 

Her hands find their way to her labia, softly stroking, distributing the moisture. She lets one finger glide inside, then two, pushes herself into her own hand as the other fondles her breast. She is building, building, pushing in, retracting, again, again and she is writhing on the narrow bed, her bedclothes wrinkling under her. She normally stays almost still while she pleasures herself, a routine release, but with her emotions so close to the surface, she cannot keep her body from moving while she tries her hardest to still her moaning and panting.

She is so close, she removes her hand from her breast, starts putting pressure on her clit, moving it in the tiniest of circles, then moving the soft pads of her fore- and middle fingers up and down, to and fro and she wants to come so badly, she is trembling and she tries to think of things that would get her over the edge.

But not him.

Not today.

Tears well up in her eyes as she thinks about how he is always the one she turns to in her fantasies. She always wonders what it would be like to be pushed against the wall in the wine cellar, her skirts yanked up high, his hand on her through the slit of her knickers. She often wonders what it would be like to have him bend her over the Servants’ Hall table and take her from behind. 

She wonders what it would be like in a double bed with floral bedding and the rice coming out of her dress and her hair and him hovering over her and kissing her again and again, telling her he loves her.

She lazily keeps rubbing herself, keeping so close, so close, her other hand roaming around her, trying to gather the blanket to cover herself against the cold, when there is a knock on the door and his voice calling her “Elsie? Are you alright?”, is rumbling through to her, striking her unexpectedly. She shatters, her back arching, her ankles digging into the bed and she doesn’t notice how he has opened the door and has seen her come, 

on top of her bedding,

wearing nothing but her stockings,

with his name on her lips.


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course he enters the room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cross posted from ff.net

She’s turned to the wall and pulled her blanket around her as far as it can and she is still breathing hard when the mattress dips beside her and his hand is on her bare shoulder. She startles, sits up quickly, yanking at the covers trying to hide herself from his eyes, knowing it’s too late, he has seen her, all of her, maybe more.

“Are you alright?” He asks. His voice is calm, nothing lets on what he has witnessed and she nods, shakes her head, lets out a stifled chuckle.

“You’ll be pleased to know,” He continues: “That Miss O’Brien and Anna have pounced on Edna as if they were all fighters in a boxing match.”

He is right, she is pleased. Pleased and surprised. She had not expected Miss O’Brien to stand up for her, but then again, doesn’t the Lady’s Maid love a good fight at any given time?

“Edna has left, I don’t know where she went.” He rubs her back when she looks at him, shocked. “Not upstairs, she’s probably gone out, to the pub she is so fond of.”

She nods again, is reminded of Tom meeting with the girl, how he didn’t know how to handle it and she understands better now, understands that in grief you are not your strongest self and that you make decisions you come to regret.

She leans into him, she doesn’t notice until he provides support, lays his arm around her shoulder now and she puts her head on his and she starts crying again, the release too temporary to heal, the blow struck too hard. Memories and strain and denying herself. 

Too much. All of it. Edna made an offhand remark and she had called her out and instead of being remorseful, the girl had raised an eyebrow, quirked her lips and said it and it had pierced her so hard, she presses her hand against her chest, where she can feel her heart beat under her fingers. Not too evenly yet, not the normal, solid thumping she is used to. 

“Dismissed without a reference, I’d say. What you?” 

He doesn’t use her name. It feels like it’s been left hanging in the air and she shivers, not because she is cold - the blankets are warm and she has just given herself a warmth no-one offers her - but because she isn’t used to him being this close. Her tears stain his jacket and her tight grip on his waistcoat is wrinkling the fabric, but he doesn’t seem to mind, instead he puts his big hand over her smaller one, holding her steady, Mr Carson, Charles, this strong, solid man beside her and she takes a deep breath, another. Another. 

She is still now.

“Won’t you get dressed?” He asks, releasing her from his warm, tender grip. “Mrs Patmore saved you a bit of dessert.” He bends over to whisper in her ear: “Chocolate roll...”

She smiles a watery smile at him, reaches up to touch his cheek and the blanket slides down her form and she cannot find it in herself to care, watches his eyes glide over her shoulders, her breasts, her nipples stiff in the cool nightair and she lets him, stroking the stubble on his cheek with her thumb, softly, so softly, pulling him closer towards her, until their lips meet.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reveal and the closeness.

The kiss is so soft and gentle, so unlike the kisses she recalls from when she was young - quick, uneasy ones behind the barn back in Argyle, stolen ones from men she doesn’t want to remember. He doesn’t grab her, doesn’t push her, he just kisses her as if it they are used to doing it and somewhere in the back of her mind she can hear a small voice saying that maybe it finally is as it should be. 

When he breaks the kiss he smiles at her, she smiles back and suddenly the things Edna said don’t sting as much (“Really Mrs Hughes, the way you pine for Mr Carson and you cry over Lady Sybil as if she’s been your daughter, it’s not professional, I’m sure it doesn’t come with this way of life.”). It cut into her, because she hasn’t pined for him, he is always near, his voice always close, a gentle hand in the small of her back when needed. He’s been beside her the way she’s been beside him. He, Charles, Mr Carson, Charles Carson, she’s not sure how to call him now, like her, is as strong as their weakest trait and he is afraid of change and she gets attached to her charges and it’s only normal, they are human under their servant masks after all.

She leans back in, kisses him again, puts her arms around his neck, but he sits still, doesn’t kiss her back and she looks up at him, confused.

“I don’t want to take advantage.” He says, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear.

“You’re not.” She answers. She understands what he says: she is naked, only partially covered by her blankets and she has just cried on his jacket. She can’t be sure about what he has seen before, if he has watched her and the thought makes her breath hitch. A warmth grows, her sex tingles. He thinks she is vulnerable now, but she is feeling stronger than before, more secure because he kissed her and he holds her and she can see it in his eyes: concern and something that could be love. 

Desire. 

She puts her hand on his thigh. She can feel him tense up under her fingers and she presses her lips together, looks at him from under her eyelashes and in the faint light she can see a blush appear. His trousers hike up ever so slightly, his breathing speeds up and she knows. 

“Did you stand there long?” She asks, her voice calm. Casual.

“What do you mean?” His answer comes too quickly, his voice a smidgen higher than usual.

“In the doorway. Before you came in.” She studies his face, sees how he is thinking through his reply.

“Not very long.”

“Oh.” She lets her hand wander up and she can feel his warmth, how his trousers are getting tighter and tighter. “What’s that? Exactly? Not very long?”

He scrapes his throat, looks at her imploringly and she tilts her head.

All of this makes her feel brave and he is here, on her bed and things have changed between them over the past months, they are more than friends, more than people who work together and get along. She takes a breath, moves away from him the tiniest bit so he can see her fully. The blankets slide away from her.

“Did you see me like this?” 

He nods.

“Did you see me...” She puts her hand on her breast, the offending one that gave her such a fright, the one she thought would kill her. 

Another nod and a soft, soft groan. She lifts her hand from his thigh, grabs his, puts it again her breast.

“Touch me...” She whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, they'll get there in the next chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally

Her bed is narrow, but they fit when pressed together. His fingers are mapping her body, gently exploring, kissing her mouth, her cheek, her temple as she slips buttons through their holes, one by one, pushing his clothes off, revealing him to her. The lights are still off and she is glad, suddenly a bit apprehensive of being seen under the naked electric light.

She moves against him, not quite in control. He touches her in ways she's not been in a long time, maybe not ever. She knows her body well since the episode. She knows that if he brushes his thumb over her nipple, it will come to life so differently from when she pinches it herself and when they finally lays skin to skin, it feels like coming home. 

It's been so long, but when she straddles him, everything goes so naturally, like they've done it a thousand times and she smiles, catches his thumb between her teeth when he reaches up to her. She sucks on it as she slides over him, feeling how hard he is - for her, amazingly it’s for her - and she moans, her head falling back slightly and she lets go of his thumb, puts a steadying hand on his chest.

"Are you sure..." He asks and she knows he will stop if she says 'no', knows he will not be angry, not even disappointed and it pushes her further, spurs her on because she is the one in control now. She lifts herself slightly and she guides him in. 

It's a snug fit, it's tight and she hisses, bites on her lip. He doesn't move, lets her get used to it and she closes her eyes as she starts rocking back and forth, only a bit, such a tiny little bit and it feels so good. Her moves grow bolder, stronger until she feels his hands on her hips, giving her purchase and all she wants is to be closer to him and she leans forward, her nipples grazing the soft grey curls on his chest. 

Her mouth finds his and they kiss as gently as that first kiss, just now, not ten minutes ago, and her heart swells. She gets off him and she sees his confusion which fades when she pulls at him, motions that she want him over her, on top her, to feel his weight, to feel even more part of what they are creating, here in her small cot, in the dark attic room and she knows the walls have ears, but she doesn't care. She moans when he takes her again and she wraps her legs around him, puts her hand on his shoulder, the other on his cheek and gazes into his eyes.

Oh, she never pined for him, but she has longed for his touch and now she has it, she grabs all she can like a starved woman and she moves with the rhythm he establishes, kisses his shoulder, his chest, he is so much taller, she can't reach his face, so she traces the lines there with the the pad of her forefinger. 

He is saying things, kind things, sweet things, things she hasn’t heard before, not ever and tears form, run down her cheeks and he kisses them away. She holds onto him, tightly and she knows there will be blemishes on his back where she’s dug her nails in, but she can’t help it. He moves her in a way she’s not been moved before, she tugs at the sheets, arches her back, she’s not sure of the sounds she is making; another thing she doesn’t have quite under control.

He speeds up and she calls out and he holds her close to him when her orgasm almost catches her by surprise and he is so close behind her. Somehow that too is just like them. She goes first, shows him the way and he follows and now he just gathers her in his arms and they try to catch their breath, his arm around her shoulder, her head on his chest. She feels safely tucked away, comforted.

Elated.

Worried.

Because this will change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told you they would get to it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up the morning after the night before

She’s never had this before. The hard against the soft, the perfect fit, the waking up sore and aching and ready for more. His arms are around her, she can hear the steady beating of his heart under her cheek, her hand is rising and falling with his even breathing. She has only moments before it is time to start her day, before checking breakfast trays and going through the house to find specks of dust on mantlepieces and to shake out curtains that have not been pulled back enough.

He sighs deeply and pulls her even closer and she knows he must be awake, must be thinking things like she is, worrying perhaps. Because he never went downstairs after finding her, instead giving her comfort with words and hands. Skin to skin, hand in hair, wrapped in and around each other. She stifles a moan as she thinks of how he moved her all through the night, she grips him tighter when she feels him grow hard against her thigh.

When she allows her hand to wander, his is around her wrist, keeping it inches away from him. He tells her good morning, kisses her temple and says they don’t have time, but she wrestles herself loose - it’s not any kind of struggle, she knows he would never force her, hold her down, hurt her in any way -, puts her hand around him and hears how his breath hitches. She finds strength in that little gasp until his hand is suddenly warm on her breast, his fingers brushing her nipple to life, his lips are on hers and she finds herself getting on top of him, guiding him inside and she moves slowly, savouring every stroke. Last night it was all quick and hard and comfort, but now she just wants it for what it is: closeness and being together fully and she doesn’t chase her orgasm like she did before, but when it comes she welcomes it with quiet gasps and his name rolling off her lips.

They don’t speak much as they wash and get dressed, a few words, some kindnesses and she had thought that maybe things might be awkward, but they aren’t. They are as if this is as much routine as answering bells and buttering toast. She looks at him in the mirror as she does her hair and he plants a kiss on her still-naked shoulder as he ties his tie. She is just buttoning her dress when he puts his shoes on and they are ready to face the day.

Except she isn’t.

She is worried because he didn’t come downstairs and neither did she and they must all have heard them. The small attic rooms are divided by paperthin walls, her throat hurts from the sounds he made her utter. They must have heard the creaking of her old bed, the banging of the frame against the wall. She knows they will see it in the way she’ll walk: stiffly, uneasy. She is certain there will be talk amongst all of them and she feels a hypocrite because she has been keeping a close eye on her girls and the doors shut for over twenty years.

She has no excuses and she will not apologise. There are no words for either anyway.

When they enter the Servants’ Hall - she is pretending not to be shy, not the be afraid - it’s bustling with activity. A maid is putting down plates, another cutlery, Miss O’Brien is talking to Alfred and securing a button on a jacket, Thomas is rolling cigarettes. Ivy is putting down racks of toast, plates of eggs and bacon, Daisy sets a pot of porridge in front of Charles - Mr Carson, oh she really doesn’t know anymore - and bends to her:

“Lady Mary’s rung and I have her tray ready, but Anna is not here.” She whispers urgently.

“Just keep it warm, I am sure Anna will be here shortly.” Daisy nods and disappears again.

They all have breakfast and Anna comes in, looking rushed, her cheeks red. She nods at the girl, who nods back and mouths an apology and runs into the kitchen. 

The day has begun.

And all is seemingly quite... normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember rapport cards saying: "Must try harder"? Oh, but gods I tried. I hope things will be better the next chapter and you will forgive me for this one.


	6. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief conversation

So she shakes out the curtains and runs a feather duster over the chandelier and mantlepiece in the library, checks the blacking on the grates, tells her maids what to do. This day is no different than any other day. 

She isn’t worried about Charles. He is honest and honourable, he would not have laid with her if he didn’t love her. If he didn’t want to make a go of things. In all these years she has not known him to court anyone. Him touching her, moving her, making love to her, that means something and she felt it under the pads of her fingers, in her lips against his. It’s lasting because it’s been such a long, long time coming.

Everything around her reminds her of him, the sore muscles in her thighs as she goes up the stairs, the way he has straightened the vases in the hall, any bell that rings and she is in her parlour, trying to get some work done, but then she sees a scribble in the margin of the household accounts and his precise handwriting makes her think of the way he finds ways to make her body soar. 

The ice that had crept into her bones when they told her she might die, when Lady Sybil passed away, when Mr Crawley lost his life in the car accident, seems to have melted somewhat: she feels warmer than she has in weeks. She stirs her tea, tries to focus on the linen rota, the note that came with the coal delivery today - hardly legible, written in blunt pencil, the letters uneven.

Outside her door she hears the bustle of the day, She knows everyone by their quick footsteps: the creaking of Alfred’s new shoes, uncomfortable. The clicking of heels, short steps, deliberate. Anna. She gets up from her swivel chair, quickly goes through the room, opens the door. Calls for the girl, who is holding her sewing basket and a black garment.

Mending for Lady Mary, who will not shed her mourning.

The girl blushes fiercely, but steps over the threshold and what should be familiar and easy is awkward. Anna’s blush deepens when asked to sit and she sits down on one of the straight-backed chairs, crosses her ankles prettily.

While not strictly under her jurisdiction anymore, Elsie feels she needs to address Anna’s tardiness, knowing full well the reasons a newlywed might be coming in late - though Mr Bates had been in at his regular hour. 

“It’s not like you to be late.” She starts and Anna looks down into her lap, her small hands holding on to the fabric.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hughes. It won’t happen again.” She says, not looking up.

“There’s nothing... wrong, is there? You didn’t fall out with Lady Mary or something?”

Now Anna does look up, her brow furrowed. “No, I haven’t fallen out with Lady Mary.”

They both bites their lips and Elsie feels a smile starting to pull at her lip.

“Then what is it?” 

“They sent me up to check on you and Mr Carson last night.” 

Maybe she shouldn’t have asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this fic will ever end...


	7. chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dreaded talk

She can feel red spots starting to cover her throat and neck. Her smile freezes into a mask. Anna’s words carve through thick tension. 

God, no... she silently prays.

“Oh?” She feels she knows what’s coming and it’s taken all her calmth and reason.

Anna nods. “Because it was a bit out of the ordinary for Mr Carson to follow you and then neither of you came back...” They look at each other with pained expressions and Elsie knows that the girl has overheard them, if not worse and her heart starts beating painfully against her breastbone and it hurts, just like not knowing what to say.

“So... You came to find either of us...” The words are whispers, nothing more than the last bit of air being pressed from her lungs.

“We were worried. Or at least, I was. A bit.” Anna takes in a gulp of air and rattles off the rest of what she has to say: “I went up to the attics, because I thought maybe you had gone to your room and then when I got there, I sort of...”

Oh God... Elsie thinks. Oh no...

“Heard you.”

Her hand flies up to her mouth, wraps around her chin and lips, quenches the odd noise that is escaping her. 

She knows she can’t pretend she doesn’t understand Anna, doesn’t know what she is talking about and so they sit across from each other, in silence, the atmosphere building until Anna lets out this tiny little giggle.

And another. 

“Don’t...” Elsie almost pleads and Anna tightens her lips, but she keeps shaking with uncontrollable laughter and Elsie shakes her head, thinks she needs a drink, or at least a cup of tea, something to tide her over until she knows what to do, thinks of something to say.

As she looks at Anna who is trying to compose herself, she wonders how it is she has so many formulas to use - this to say to the homesick, this to the one who needs a little push, this to the girl who comes to her in tears from having been rejected by a boy or worse. Never, in her whole career, has she encountered this situation. Oh, she has walked in on a few people - she thinks of Ethel, who is now far from Downton, but close to her child - but she’s never been walked in on.

Not that there ever was much to discover.

Anna calms down and says: “I’m sorry. It’s nothing to laugh about.”

“No, I am sorry... I am so sorry, Anna...” Sorry you had to hear us, sorry we have made you uncomfortable. 

“I didn’t say anything when I came downstairs again. Just that you needed a bit more time.” Now Anna’s cheeks flush too and she adds: “I didn’t mean it like that!” 

“I didn’t think you did.” Her hand is warm from pressing it to her face and she is breathing more easily now, but she is still shaken.

“It’s alright.” 

“No, it isn’t.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” Anna says it like it’s clear as day. “I mean, it’s quite nice, isn’t it.”

Elsie closes her eyes for a long moment, remembering Charles’ weight on top of her, the way he made her arch her back, press herself against him wantonly.

“It was just... unfortunate... I sort of stumbled in on you.”

“Yes.” What else is she to say.

“But it’s not like it was never going to happen.” Anna keeps on stating the facts and Elsie braces herself, tries to work out what to do, how to stop the girl. She isn’t ready to talk about it, needs to be alone with the information to figure out what to do.

“We all know you’ve loved each other for ages.” Anna throws her a soft smile and shrugs a little. “It’s fine. It’s good. It’s making you happy. Just... you know... try to be a bit more discreet, maybe?”

Normally she wouldn’t allow such talk, but it’s not a normal situation and Anna is looking taller and confident. And the girl is right. They let their emotions run away with them and had acted on impulse. 

She cannot let that happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's sad I don't do comedy, isn't it? Trust me, I tried. It didn't work, at all. So I reverted to what I do: aimlessness. Sorry.


	8. chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> smut. that's all.

She hears Anna’s voice, the words she spoke earlier are mixing with the soft moaning, the rapid breathing. “I sort of... heard you.” So she tries to be quiet, tries to keep her noises to herself, bites her lip until she draws blood.

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

“It’s quite nice, isn’t it.”

His hand soft on the back of her thigh, his lips gently kissing the hollow of her neck, his thrusts rhythmic and steady and she arches her back, meets him, her nails are digging in his shoulder and she comes up to whisper in his ear.

She’s never said the words before. Never felt them the way she does now and she doesn’t expect to hear them back, she just needed them out, to be heard. But he stills, releases her thigh to cup her cheek, to stroke her burning cheek. When he kisses her, it’s warm and supple and he returns her phrase to her, words separated with kisses and she opens wider before squeezing him between her legs and he lifts her bodily from the bed, holds her to his chest and the bed protests and she is reminded again of Anna, of the night, not so long ago - three days? a week - and makes him stop with pleading eyes and the shushing gesture of a librarian.

“We have to be quiet...” She tells him. 

“We are.” He replies and he keeps his hands under her bottom, holds her close, kisses her temples, her brow as it furrows.

“Not quiet enough.” She hisses, but he plunges in deep and she mewls, hanging on tight to his neck. She doesn’t question his strength, she knows about champagne deliveries, about carrying silver tea services up flights of stairs. Again he thrusts and she arches her back, presses her breasts against his chest, leaves her throat exposed and he kisses it, up the side to her jawline.

“Anna heard us...” She then manages to stutter and she is sure he will stop loving her, that he will quit, plant her on the bed, remove himself from her and her room, but he doesn’t. He keeps going, a hint of a smile on his lips.

“It’s not funny...” She pushes herself down on him and he loses balance, they fall backwards on the bed and she is on top of him. She doesn’t let him go, grips him tightly with her sex and her hands until she is comfortable again and she starts riding him.

“Everybody knows...” She pants.

“Uh-huh...” He helps her rock back and forth, licks on his thumb and puts it right there and she shuts her eyes tightly as she tries to concentrate on what she was saying as she moves more frantically, trying to chase the ultimate pleasure that is at the end of this.

“What are we to do?” She needs more, harder, deeper and she can’t get it, can’t get it right and she groans in frustration, her hands in his chest hair and he seems to get it, comes up a bit, helps her off and as she turns to her back, he settles between her legs and dips his head to kiss her thighs, nibble on the pale, soft skin, upwards, further until he dips his tongue between her folds and she shudders.

He comes up, kisses his way to her navel. Broad palms over the white skin of her belly, her chest, breasts cradled and he takes her again, slowly, easily.

He scrambles to his knees, pulling her up, her buttocks resting against him and he grabs her hand, suckles on her fingers, puts them over her clit and nods. 

“Do it, Elsie...” He coaxes her. “Come for me...”

It’s not long before she does and he is so quick to follow, she isn’t sure who was first, but it doesn’t matter. Just as she is starting to fall asleep, she hears his rumbling voice washing over her as he says:

“We don’t do anything, Elsie. For now, we sleep.”


	9. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> epilogue

He cannot find his good cufflinks and when she reaches for a chemise, she grabs hold of his undershorts. He has fallen out of bed a fair few times now. There are waistcoats and starched shirts hanging next to her Housekeeper’s dresses. His toothbrush leans against hers in the glass on the table. There’s two towels instead of one.

He has washed her hair once. His fingers pulling apart waterlogged strands of deep mahogany. He has seen the silver between and kissed her temple before rinsing the soap out. Not regular soap, the stuff they use to wash their hands, their bodies, but something in a glass bottle that foamed and frothed. Watching the bubbles wash away over her was almost too much for him. There are times he reminds himself of it, the pleasure, the intimacy. It was new and foreign, but close and familiar and he doesn’t think about how that came to be.

They still sit in her sitting room, drink the leftover wine, discuss their days. She has started to darn his socks, check the hems of his shirts. When their fingers touch when taking a biscuit from the plate, they don’t jump back, but smile. 

Both have gotten used to the little bit of teasing they get subjected to. Beryl giving Charles three rashers of bacon instead of two, telling him he needs to keep his strength up. Mr Bates giving Elsie a wink in passing. They don’t flinch, Elsie hardly breaks out in a flush these days.

They have managed to find ways to be more quiet during their lovemaking. They have discovered all sorts of new things about the other - how she likes it when he is a bit forceful, how he likes it when she scrapes her nails over his back. They fit together perfectly and she knows that if she’d been younger when they found this out, she would have demanded a wedding ring, the sanctity of marriage, but now, for now, she isn’t bothered.

He is, though.

Not because of the teasing, not because of propriety - if his Lordship comments on it with a ‘good, good, don’t let it get in the way of work’, that’s as close to proper he needs - but he feels he needs to take care of her. In other ways than holding her close during nightmares, other than filling her wineglass. He knows she can take care of herself, she is independent, she has no need for being mollycoddled. But he is older than she is. Frailer in a way - he thinks of his collapse, the Spanish flu, the way his heart sometimes hurts when he wants too quick, wants too much. He is fairly certain he will go first.

He wants what’s his to be hers. He has lived a frugal life, has money put by. When he feels he has done all he can at Downton - not yet, not quite yet - he will ask her to go to a cottage with him. To live their golden years as man and wife together. Somehow that feels right.

 

She finds him in the kitchen, sitting at the table, writing. The words appear on the page, bold and strong. She has always admired his precise, slanting writing. She bends over him, her belly and breasts, no longer confined to the steel rods of her old fashioned corsets, but more supple in her new stays, press against him as she plants a kiss in his hair. In the distance they can hear the voices of small children. She asks if he’s alright and he puts down his pen, turns, cups her cheek. 

“Fine. I’m fine.” He answers and they smile. “How are things outside?” He jerks his head a little to indicate the garden through the window. The sunlight catches on Elsie’s ring. “Fine. No-one’s lost a limb yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kudos and comments, they are all so appreciated!


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